Crescendo
by Mitsukai
Summary: She was to be his artistic masterpiece—his alone—therefore no mere human's hand may touch her, not even her own, at least not for this night. One-shot, Deidara sickfic.


_**Crescendo**_

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Naruto _nor any of the characters originating from said series.

**Author's Note: **Apologies for the OC, my aversion to sex scenes, and my lack of knowledge regarding 'nunneries'. Also, there isn't supposed to be any dialogue. The whole story is merely experimentation on my part, an exercise of description. If this isn't your cup of tea, then...suck it.

**Word Count: **1,525

**Warning: **Only for those who entertain a sick, wicked Deidara. Not for anyone who has delusions of living happily ever after with him.

* * *

Behind the wooden bars of the building, a young woman looked somberly at the rain-soaked streets just outside. Hearing noises behind, she averted her attention back to the numerous men before her, forcing a compliant smile upon her painted lips as she attempted to attract one of them.

Amiable expression still plastered, the young woman noted out of the corner of her eye a peculiarly dressed man, whose black cloak adorned with red clouds was buttoned all the way up its high collar. His wide straw hat tinkled puckishly, for it concealed the face of the man with a teasing temptation. In her short peek, the woman glimpsed long blonde hair and dark-colored nails before she lost her bravado and focused on her potential customers once more.

She jumped, hearing her name uttered beckoningly, and rushed to the other room, relieved with freedom from the other men. A sudden stop, however, was her reaction to the sight before her—the strange man from outside, indoors and thence hatless, now spoke to another person, her 'employer'.

Trading coins for words, the cloaked stranger ordered her to follow with a gesture, and she did so mutely, only once glancing back to see her superior greedily counting the money with a miserly grin. Returning her gaze to the stranger, she found herself stunned by his beauty. His long blonde hair flowed gently before her, and when he turned to make sure she followed him to the staircase, she again was shocked at the vivacity in the deep pools of blue that were his eyes, set symmetrically into a handsomely youthful face, one that seemed ready to break into smiles, albeit not the kind that spoke of mirth.

The trek upstairs was uneventful, but then again, there never was anything remarkable about the trip upstairs, which the young woman made many times before, to the room well-furnished with cheap mats and gaudy decorations, which elicited a disgusted snarl from her escort.

Steaming tea lay before them on a tray, as well as a small meal, hardly substantial enough to fill an empty stomach because, after all, the room was not intended for dining in.

Yet dine they did, upon the stranger's insistence, so she obligingly joined him in sharing a miniscule meal.

On her second and last sushi roll, she frowned at the taste.

Deidara, as she learned the man's name to be amongst other bric-a-brac facts befit for small talk, inquired as to the problem.

Not desiring to appear nitpicky, she ignored the unfamiliar earthy flavor and assured him everything was fine, artfully devouring the sushi for further reassurance. The blonde man, surely no younger than she, gave a wide grin. Naturally, she smiled back, though perhaps not so readily.

His grin, though beautiful on his youthful face, set her at unease, betrayed by a sinister spark in his equally striking azure eyes, two cerulean sapphires next to her pair of dull pebbles deadened by years of despondency.

The catlike grace with which he inched toward her exposed his status as shinobi, something she had often heard about and rarely observed, and it only served to frighten her more. With a wide sweep of his arm, the food tray was cleared off the floor, granting the pair plenty of room on and off the mats laid before them.

The man, his swift finesse more evident in each movement, inched behind the young woman slowly, drawing the moment out as he informed her that she was his for the night. She bristled expectantly at his hand ever-so-gently floated against the nape of her neck, fingers dipping tantalizingly into her collar. Sensation suddenly ceasing, she peered curiously out of the corner of her eye to see him shrugging off his cloak with his back to her, and the woman turned her gaze forward again, knowing full well what he was doing and feeling entirely uninterested. There was nothing new he could possibly show her.

With another secretive glance, she had to admit, however, that even his body was much more enticing to gaze upon than any of her other clients. If his mannerisms had not proven yet, his lean, toned back would have quite openly exemplified his shinobi occupation. The young woman suddenly felt grateful to her makeup, for it hid her blush when she absentmindedly wished that, if they were all even half as beautiful as Deidara, more shinobi passed by.

All attire shorn from his body, she wondered if it was her 'turn' and reached to undo her hair, when his firm hand abruptly grasped her wrist, stiffly yet not painfully. The sudden motion, however, and strange sliminess in his grip elicited a startled gasp from the young woman, but her only reply was a vague explanation.

She was to be his artistic masterpiece—his alone—therefore no mere human's hand may touch her, not even her own, at least not for this night.

No other answer offered, Deidara reached for her hair himself, skillfully sliding the trinkets and ties from her tresses, which fell upon her shoulders once the support vanished. Gingerly, he brushed her hair from her nape, dividing the locks into unequal halves that he pushed over her shoulders.

Next went the obi, which he untied with utmost caution, as though it were a sacred relic rather than the sash of a prostitute, unwrapping the waist of the young woman until her kimono threatened to fall off if she allowed. He folded the cloth and after laying it on the mat, eased her to the floor so that her obi became a makeshift pillow. Softly, he squeezed her hands, which clung to the hem of her kimono in an effort to keep it closed, and pried her fingers off the cloth, proceeding to slide the garment from her body so deftly that she might not have noticed its absence, save for the fact she eyed his hands intently as he disrobed her.

She recoiled into the floor, horrified at the large pink tongue that flicked outside one—no, both—of his perfect hands, marred only by the mouths cutting ugly lines across his beautiful palms. Glancing at him questionably, the young woman almost screamed at a third mouth, massively grinning at her upon his breast with an ugly sort of sadism. Curled tattoos surrounded the newest discovered mouth, stitched shut to her relief, and feeling more curious than terrified—she never encountered such a man before, and she still had a job to do—a thin pale finger rose warily to trace the dark curves with a guarded gentility.

Perhaps it was that moment in which he realized the young woman just might know what she was doing, for Deidara, by no means a ticklish person, felt something jolt sensationally through his veins to the very center of his being, supposedly his heart, although many doubted he possessed one. He froze; she smirked, an expression perfected through extensive practice, and rose her head up to kiss him tentatively.

Recovering from initial shock, the blonde matched her smirk with his own, an invitation for the woman to pleasure him further yet also a warning against misfortune she might bring upon herself. The conflicting motives behind his expression only served to contribute additional confusion in the young woman, whose smirk shriveled into an 'o' of perplexity.

Intrigue defeating her fear, she grasped his right hand and brought it to her mouth, kissing around the lips of the palm, on his wrist, each of his fingers, everywhere except the mouth's hand. Finally, she pressed her lips to that of his hand, gently, chastely, to test the waters with her abounding curiosity. A moan escaped his mouth—the one on his face—and she felt tremors running through his fingers.

The hand ripped away, and his face lowered to meet hers, their eyes locking but a split second before their lips connected in a kiss of desire and passion, smashing together none too delicately.

Taking a moment to breathe, he told her that as soon as he saw her in the window, he felt drawn to her, to the explosion that he knew she secretly kept hidden. His lusty voice in her ear caused the young woman to arch into his body, her hands wildly clutching at his back, pulling him in. Eyes hooded, she drew him even closer for a sensual kiss.

He parted again, and again he began speaking. She was a masterpiece, Deidara said heavily before he suddenly thrust himself into her, and he the artist. At that moment, he created in her a beauty unprecedented and never to be repeated. This instance in their lives would go down in history as the most glorious moment in the miserable world they inhabited.

As they descended into a decrescendo after what felt like eons, he thanked her for producing such magnificent art with him.

Without waiting for a response, he leapt out the window.

Moments later found Deidara chortling hysterically as passersby gasped in shock when the charred remains of a young woman fell into the streets.

"But of course, true art must end with a bang!"


End file.
